


Smoke Signals

by shadow_lover



Category: Marijuana Breath - Adam Jensen (Song), Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Awkward Flirting, First Kiss, M/M, Marijuana, Reluctant Betrothal, Science Fiction, catboy, stoner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-14 14:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: Aza first sees Moiran Mereday on the cusp of their betrothal, and his first thought is, damn, maybe there are some perks after all.





	Smoke Signals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThatOneFicYouLikedButToldNobodyAbout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneFicYouLikedButToldNobodyAbout/gifts).



> Happy Jukebox! I really enjoyed all your requests, and ended up working a few elements from Death of a Bachelor in here too. Hope you enjoy :)

Lieutenant-Secretary Cora pulls him aside before the ceremony and hisses in his ear, “Are you _high_ right now?”

“Kinda?” Aza says, because there’s no point in hiding it. Cora’s always been more observant than either of his mothers. He wiggles his arm out of her blunt-clawed hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

He’s not worried about it. That’s pretty much the point. He’s the good kind of slow, and the lazy warmth flowing up from palms to heart is way better than the alternative, which is drop dead panic. This way, the opalline murals and sky-high columns of the judicial garrison are fascinating rather than intimidating. He reaches for the nearest adorned column, and the preservation field tingles a half-inch from the surface. 

The lieutenant-secretary looks like she has a lot more to say about it, but she doesn’t. Her green-scaled face closes into impassive professionalism. The Meredays have arrived, and it’s time to enter the paramagistrate’s chamber. Aza hangs back with Cora and the bodyguards, where maybe his red eyes won’t be so obvious, and he can glance around for—

Aza first sees Moiran Mereday on the cusp of their betrothal, and his first thought is, damn, maybe there are some perks after all.

The Mereday heir is prettier than he has any right to be. Aza never would have guessed it by the way people described him. Word in the newsfeeds is the youngest Mereday’s a frigid, uptight asshole. All his mother’s drive and none of her charm. That frosty demeanor was—again, this was newsfeed gossip—the reason he was the only unwed Mereday available, which left him free for this sham: half corporate merger, half dynastic alliance, all a pain in Aza’s ass.

But now that Aza’s in the paramagistrate’s chamber, surrounded by company representatives as his mothers review the contract with Lady Mereday’s proxy, it’s inescapable. His husband-to-be is wildly, ridiculously pretty.

Ink-black ears prick up from his dark, wavy hair, and Aza wonders which is softer. Eyes so wide and gold Aza would suspect contacts on a human. He’s supposed to be twenty-three, a year older than Aza, but he looks younger. His dark, tight jacket buttons all the way up his throat, encasing a lean, almost delicate figure. Even his sleek, dark tail holds still behind him.

Aza can see where the ice prince rep comes from. He’s been staring at Moiran for the past five minutes and they haven’t made eye contact once. He wonders if he’s already fucked it up somehow, or if Moiran’s distaste is more general. Kemonomimi don’t marry outside their own kind often, and Moiran might not be thrilled about marrying a human.

Maybe longer than five minutes. Time’s getting fuzzy. Lieutenant-Secretary Cora elbows him discreetly; Aza jumps indiscreetly. He feels entirely out of place as he steps up to the paramagistrate’s desk. Even the marijuana haze can’t quell his nerves as he presses his thumbprint next to Moiran’s on the digipaper and signs his life away.

**x**

The betrothal party is at one of the local Mereday estates, and their escorts convene in the entry hall. Black marble and glittering caetanium echo under Aza’s feet, while the old-wood walls seem to hum with the syn strains pouring from the adjacent ballroom. It’s an old-money room. The sort of old-fashioned that’s so damn old it’s been cool again for a century. Aza knows just enough of style to know he’ll never fit in a room like this.

Luckily, he doesn’t give a fuck about that. He has other priorities. At present, his future husband walking up, staring into nothing. His face is impassive, but his ears tuck back against his hair. Either anger or anxiety. Aza isn’t great at reading kemonomimi expressions yet. He’ll need to work on that.

Moiran’s dressed much the same as he was at the betrothal, and the deep blue brocade gives his pale-gold skin an almost luminous quality. He halts a polite distance from Aza and extends his hand. His greeting is cool and perfectly polite: “Aza Iones.”

Aza is struck by the inescapable desire to undo those buttons, one by one. He takes Moiran’s hand, and it isn’t cold at all. “Moiran.” He doesn’t shake his hand. He bows, waving his free arm ridiculously, and pauses, his lips less than an inch from Moiran’s knuckles. He can feel his betrothed’s faint trembling through his fingers as he grins and says, “Come here often?” 

Moiran rolls his eyes, but Aza catches the hint of a grin anyway. And he’s pretty sure that ear-flick and tail-swish is a good sign. Aza holds his hand for a moment longer, grins real slow, savors the warmth of slim fingers in his, and thrills in the faint pink dusting Moiran’s cheeks by the time he lets go.

There are too many well-wishers and not enough friends at the reception. It is an hour of smiles and handshakes before Aza finds himself again at arm’s length from Moiran. They—and half a dozen people Aza’s never seen in his life—are clustered at a champagne waterfall. Aza clutches an empty glass, trying to work up the nerve to dip it in the flow without getting champagne up his entire sleeve.

Moiran manages it effortlessly. One drop spills over the edge, and he catches it with his thumb. Even pressing his thumb to pink lips, with the flash of pink tongue, his expression is utterly cool and still.

He looks over and says, “Aza.” Like he’s getting used to the taste of it. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

Aza’s about to say yes, because his mothers had been crystal clear that this engagement was to progress without a hitch, so there’d be none of his usual bullshit. He’s supposed to be polite and proper.

“Not really,” Aza says before he can stop himself. “I was about to bail. Wanna come with?”

It’s rude. Super rude. He can’t see either of his mothers, but he can practically feel Zalia’s laser vision from somewhere across the room. This party has been planned for _months_ and Aza’s lasted maybe an hour.

But he doesn’t give a shit about that, because Moiran is grinning. He knocks back the champagne and sets it on the waterfall’s edge. “Gladly,” he says, polite as fuck.

Lights flash as he takes Aza’s hand. Aza distantly hopes some gossip reporter gets paid properly for the whirlwind romance angle.

**x**

Aza’s car’s waiting in the circular glideway already, and Lieutenant-Secretary Cora raises her eyebrow-ridges as she retracts the back door.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mereday,” she says. “Is your escort coming?”

“They’ll follow in another car.” Moiran still hasn’t let go of Aza’s hand. It’s so warm, like the lights and bubbly are pulsing between them.

“Pass me the keys?” Aza says brightly.

Lieutenant Cora answers just as brightly, “Absolutely not.”

Moiran finally lets go of his hand to hop in first. The purple and pink lights reflect in his dark hair, his golden eyes. “Is he that bad a driver?” he asks Cora, who just snorts and closes the door behind them both.

“She just never lets me drive because she’s jealous of how great I am.” The car rumbles into gear, and the restraint field hums into place. “I’m just, uh. Better with stunt craft. Open skies, no other drivers. Do you fly?”

“No.” Moiran glances towards the window, ears tucked back. “I’m pretty boring.”

“Doubt it,” Aza says, but stops his follow-up questions. He’s dumb as a brick, but not dumb enough to miss those signals. This isn’t an _interview_. Just because Aza’s nervous doesn’t mean he needs to run his mouth and drive Moiran off before they even get to know each other. “So, I didn’t really have a plan, here. You cool with heading back to my place?”

“Sure.” Moiran’s ears are still tucked back, but he glances over. “Where do you fly?”

Aza grins and settles back to do all the talking. He’s probably babbling his head off, and Cora’ll give him shit for being an idiot later. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about; he’s too busy watching Moiran, and the way the lights gleam along his narrow jaw, the stretch of onyx denim along thin thighs. The slow ease as his ears flick forwards and the tension eases from his face.

**x**

_His place_ isn’t his mothers’ downtown penthouse or country home. It’s a simple outskirts apartment—all right, it’s a penthouse too, because Gertren worried too much about security. But it’s a much smaller penthouse. In Aza’s hardest-fought bid for independence, his escort team works out of the apartment the next floor down.

“Do you smoke?” Aza asks.

Moiran blinks, answers, “Sure.” 

“Cool,” Aza says, and grabs his box off the floating coffee table. “Then keep your coat on.”

It’s cold out on the balcony. Not windy—they’re on the sheltered side of the building—but brisk and clear. The city glitters alive and organized beneath them. Like the stars have fallen and ordered themselves into grids and lines, white and yellow patterns in the blue night. Aza doesn’t turn the balcony light on; all they need is the glow through the frosted glass door.

He lights the joint and takes the first drag. The smoke fills him, and he holds his breath in ritual meditation. He lets himself cough on the exhalation so Moiran won’t feel as bad when he does.

He offers it silently, holding still so Moiran can take it from him however he likes. Moiran is delicate, deliberate, the way his fingertips brush Aza’s as he takes the joint. 

“Thanks for bailing with me,” Aza says, leaning his elbows on the balcony, tilting his head so he can watch Moiran. He isn’t even trying to be subtle about that. “I’m really not into fancy parties.”

“I hate parties in general. I hate people. Fair warning, I will be insufferably cranky at the wedding.” His tone is light, but he’s looking away again.

“Sounds good. I’ll be high as fuck.”

That wins him another hint of a grin, before Moiran brings the joint to his lips. Aza holds his own breath as Moiran inhales. The end flares, a tiny star caught between his fingertips. Aza is captivated by the way Moiran’s eyes flutter shut in concentration. The way his ears flick back uncertainly. The hitch in his throat, faint heave of his chest while his lips remain sealed, before he releases the smoke. He ducks away as he coughs, thin frame jerking. He keeps one hand over his mouth when he straightens up and offers the joint back, but his ears flick forward again.

Aza thinks this is going well.

They pass the joint back and forth a few times, and as the haze deepens, Aza notices important things. The way the smoke swirls when Moiran’s ears flick through it. The perfect pout of Moiran’s lips around the joint. The one time he coughs so hard and long that when he comes up for breath his eyes are wet and his nose is red and somehow he still looks good.

The way his shoulders finally fall. Only when he relaxes is it apparent how fucking _tense_ he’s been. 

Aza blames those wide, dark eyes more than the weed for loosening his own lips and letting the next words out. “I don’t want to get married.” He pushes on past Moiran’s faint flinch. “I don’t have a choice in that, and it sucks. But I just met this really cute guy at a party, and I really don’t mind that, so. Uh. Can I get your number?”

“Sure,” Moiran says, dazed. From the way his cheeks redden in the faint glow, it’s really hitting him. “Um. And.” This time, when he takes the joint, his fingertips brush soft over Aza’s knuckles. The faint touch sends a whole new lazy heat through Aza’s veins. “Can I kiss you?”

“I don’t know, can you?” Aza says, and then starts laughing, because this is ridiculous, how is this his life? Moiran’s pout is the cutest thing and only makes him laugh harder.

He can’t stop laughing until Moiran drops the joint in the ashtray and curls a hand around his neck and drags him down. Suddenly, his mouth is far too occupied for laughter. He is enraptured in the slow press of Moiran’s lips, the careful wet push of his tongue. Aza’s hands fall and fit so naturally to Moiran’s waist, and that long, soft tail curls around one wrist.

He was right, Aza thinks, as Moiran’s mouth opens under his. Marriage is _definitely_ going to have perks.


End file.
